Part 2 of What if #1 (it's the one with Ghidorah in it, during Aegon the Conqueror's time)
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The wind howled through the Red Keep, bringing with it the chill of a foreign storm—a reminder of power wielded across the Narrow Sea. The chamber was dimly lit, shadows flickering on the stone walls like specters lurking in the dark. Aegon I Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, sat at the head of the table, his face set in a grim expression. Before him, the Painted Table displayed a familiar map of Westeros, but the lines that had once marked territories claimed now felt like mere suggestions against the encroaching menace beyond their shores.
Visenya stood by the window, her armor still smeared with the grime of battle drills, her hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister. She watched the roiling clouds in the distance, far beyond the city's walls, like a dark bruise in the sky—a faint whisper of Ghidorah's presence, a beast who could bring cities to ruin with a roar and turn seas into boiling cauldrons with a breath. The storm, they knew, was a warning—a reminder of the colossal power that Jason Lee commanded.
Rhaenys, seated beside Aegon, looked weary, her face paler than usual. Her joy had dimmed these past months, overshadowed by the fear that gnawed at all of them. She stared at the map, but her mind was elsewhere, across the Narrow Sea, where rumors told of skeleton armies that marched without rest, of captains stitched together from rotting flesh and clad in night-black armor, of the dragon Ghidorah whose wings could blot out the sun and whose three heads could call forth lightning that split mountains.
"The Necromancer King grows bolder," Visenya said, her voice thin as a thread. "His reach extends to Dorne now, and it won't stop there."
Aegon tapped his fingers on the table, his gaze fixed on the map as if willing it to reveal some secret path to safety.
"The Martells swore fealty to him," he said, his tone laced with quiet fury. "Not to us. They're no tributary of ours."
"They had no choice," Visenya said without turning from the window. "Dorne stood no chance against him. No one does."
Aegon's eyes flickered to her, but there was an emptiness to them, a desperation that was unbecoming of one who was king. "They could have resisted."
Visenya finally turned, her silver hair catching the torchlight like ghostly strands of silk. "No, they could not. Would you have resisted if you saw your men rise from the dead, fighting you with your own kin's faces? If you saw a dragon with scales like molten gold and eyes that burn like a thousand suns, a dragon who could smother the world in darkness?"
She ridden Vhagar all the way to Essos just for a glimpse of the supposed Dragon God and... she saw exactly what the rumors painted, a dragon that was the size of a mountain, a divine being that filled Vhagar with so much fear that the she-dragon turned and fled against Visenya's command.
Rhaenys shivered. "The Dornish gave up their crowns and called him King. They did it quickly, painlessly. Perhaps they were the wisest of us."
Aegon's jaw clenched. "And what of the North? Torrhen Stark still defies us, hiding behind snow and wolves."
"He defies you," Visenya corrected, her voice sharp. "Not Jason Lee. His daughter serves in the Necromancer King's court. She's a sorceress now, they say, her loyalty bound to him through dark rites. The North does not fear us, Aegon. They fear him."
A heavy silence settled over the room. The fire in the hearth crackled, the only sound in the chamber save for the distant thunder. They all knew the stories. Jason Lee's empire stretched further every day, a shadow creeping from Essos, swallowing all in its path. His armies did not tire, did not need food or drink, and death was but a fleeting inconvenience.
How was anyone supposed to fight against something like that?
"And if we cannot make him our ally?" Rhaenys asked softly. "What then?"
Visenya stepped forward, her armored boots echoing ominously in the chamber. "Then we die, and we die screaming."
Aegon's expression hardened, his purple eyes filled with the weight of his crown. "Jason Lee is not a man who bends easily, if at all. He has no need for alliances—only for servants and corpses. We offer him gold, land, tribute—he takes it all, but it never seems to be enough. And that dragon of his… Ghidorah is no Balerion. The Black Dread may be fearsome, but even he cannot make the sky weep blood."
Visenya nodded, her decision already made. "That's why I'll offer myself."
Rhaenys looked up, her eyes wide with shock and horror. "Visenya, no."
"It's the only way," Visenya insisted, her voice firm. Her decision was made the moment Vhagar retreated from Ghidorah. All her life, she believed that dragons were the greatest and most powerful creatures in the world, that nothing else could be above them. She was wrong. The gods were above any dragon. And the Necromancer King and Ghidorah were gods who walked the land. "He may not value gold or land, but he's still a man. A Targaryen bride, a Queen of Westeros at his side—it might be enough to satisfy him, to stay his hand. If not… if not, then we will know where we stand."
Aegon stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. "I will not send you to that monster's bed."
Visenya met his gaze unflinchingly. "You won't have to. I go willingly."
Rhaenys reached for her sister, her voice breaking. "Visenya, he is not a man. He is death given flesh, a conqueror of nations, a wielder of foul magics we cannot comprehend. And that dragon-"
"Is a beast unlike any other," Visenya interrupted, her tone edged with both fear and defiance. "But better that I face them than let our realm be consumed by them. If there's even the slightest chance to keep him from our shores, then it must be taken."
Aegon looked away, the weight of his crown suddenly unbearable. He saw it now: the towering figure of Jason Lee, cloaked in shadows, eyes like embers in the dark, his voice a cold whisper that could command armies of the dead. And behind him, the looming, monstrous shape of Ghidorah, coiled like a serpent ready to strike. Aegon knew they were not facing a man; they were facing a force of nature, one that could not be reasoned with or easily swayed.
Her plan was madness, but it was a madness born of desperation, and in the face of such power, desperation was all they had left.
"Very well," Aegon said at last, his voice hollow. "But know this: if he refuses, if he strikes you down, there will be no retribution. Only an end."
Visenya nodded, resolute. "Then let us pray he finds me pleasing."
The storm outside grew louder, as if answering the silent fear that gripped them all. Aegon stared at the map once more, feeling the shadows lengthen, creeping ever closer to his kingdom. The Painted Table felt like a mockery now, its borders meaningless in the face of Jason Lee's inevitable advance.
This was not a game of thrones - it was a struggle to survive, and the dead do not play by the rules of the living.
"Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!"
The guests clapped and roared and cheered as one of them literally just drank himself to death by chugging down a whole gallon of brandy. They cheered even louder when said man burped and farted, even in death.
Holy shit that was funny.
The hall was alive with the sound of revelry - or as alive as one could expect when half the guests had no pulse. A jester played a mournful tune on a lute that had clearly seen better days, though its strings, like most things in my court, had been reanimated to serve once more. It sounded vaguely like a cat being strangled by a harp, but it set the mood rather well.
The undead servers moved between tables, distributing goblets of wine, plates of roasted meats, and the occasional eyeball that had fallen off one of their own. I admired their dedication. Really, it's hard to find good help these days - especially the kind that doesn't complain about health benefits or ever needing to sleep.
I sat at the head of the table, drumming my fingers against the armrest of my chair, a grand thing of bone and gold that probably looked more menacing than I intended. I tried to make myself approachable - I really did - but you know how it is when one rules an empire of the dead and has a dragon the size of a modest mountain lounging somewhere overhead. You get a reputation.
"Lovely spread, isn't it?" I said, turning to Prince Nymor Martell, who sat beside me with all the enthusiasm of a man about to meet his mother-in-law. The Prince was halfway through a rather impressive cup of Dornish Red, clearly trying to drown whatever lingering sense of existential dread he still had. The man's got a constitution like an ox, though you wouldn't think it to look at him.
"It's something," Nymor said, eyeing a plate of what appeared to be roast boar but might have been something else entirely. One could never be certain in my court. "I've always said you've got a flair for the dramatic, your Imperishableness."
I chuckled.
"Oh, flattery will get you everywhere, Nymor. But really, it's the little details that count, isn't it? Like making sure the wine is properly poisoned - or not poisoned, depending on the guest." I took a sip from my own goblet, purely for show. I was pretty sure I couldn't physically get drunk if I tried, but it was important to maintain appearances. Besides, I liked the taste of wine.
Across the table, Sara Stark, daughter of Torrhen Stark, was engaged in a lively discussion with one of my more vocal courtiers, a decayed fellow named Lord Drenok who, in life, had been a poet of some repute. Now he mostly spoke in limericks, which, as one might imagine, got old rather quickly. Still, he had a way of bringing out the best in people, or at least whatever hadn't already been buried beneath several layers of snow and dour Northern disposition.
Sara laughed—an actual laugh, not the half hearted chuckle that usually followed a Stark's attempt at humor.
"And you're telling me," she said, wiping a tear from her eye, "that you were buried alive twice before they got the embalming right?"
Lord Drenok nodded with pride, a few bits of ear detaching in the process. "Oh yes, my lady. First time, they used the wrong sort of salts - turned me into a right mushy mess. Second time, well, they forgot to seal the coffin properly. Had a very awkward conversation with my aunt at the wake."
The Emperor of Yi Ti sat at the far end of the table, poking suspiciously at his food. I hadn't the faintest idea why he was here, and frankly, I was too polite to ask. He just arrived one day and no one knew what to do; so I gave him and his entourage their own wing. One does not simply question an Emperor who has traveled across half the known world to attend your dinner party. But he seemed to be enjoying himself, if the perplexed frown on his face was anything to go by.
I leaned over to Nymor, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "Do you think I should say something to him? I mean, he's just sort of…here."
Nymor shrugged. "He doesn't even speak Valyrian – or Westerosi Common. No one here understands him."
Sara Stark's laughter echoed across the hall. I turned to look, just in time to see her wave her hand and send Lord Drenok's head flying off. But he didn't mind. Sara certainly didn't notice as she then began regaling the table with tales of the North, of ice and wolves and other miserable things, though she seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. I found her presence refreshing, if only because she hadn't yet tried to kill me, which was more than I could say for most Northerners I'd met.
"So I told my father," she said, waving a chicken leg for emphasis, "if you think I'm staying in the Eyrie to marry some halfwit with fewer teeth than sense, you've got another thing coming!"
Nymor leaned over, grinning. "You sound just like my sister."
"I'm sure she's lovely," Sara replied, pausing to take a bite. "But I'm not leaving this court until I've seen what all the fuss is about."
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you mean the dining experience?"
"No," she said, smirking. "The dragon. I want to see it up close."
"Ah, Ghidorah." I smiled fondly, as one might when recalling an unruly but beloved pet. Most of my guests hadn't seen Ghidorah up close. Most people, as one might imagine, were fucking terrified of him, which was entirely natural. "Yes, he does tend to make an impression. Mind you, I wouldn't get too close—he's been in a bit of a mood lately. Last week he sneezed and took out half a mountain. Splendid creature, though. Very regal."
The Emperor of Yi Ti finally spoke, his voice low and musical, though I still couldn't understand a word of it, because it wasn't anywhere close to Chinese, which I also did not understand. Nymor nodded along, pretending he could, while I just smiled and waved. It's what one does when faced with inscrutable foreign dignitaries.
"Lovely chap," I said once he'd finished. "I'm sure that was very profound."
As the night wore on, the music grew louder, the undead more raucous, and I found myself leaning back in my chair, watching the scene with a sense of contentment that was rare for someone in my line of work. Sure, there were wars to wage, kingdoms to conquer, and the Targaryens and their offer to consider, but tonight, none of that seemed to matter. Tonight, I was just a Necromancer King hosting a dinner party, surrounded by good food, strange company, and the vague but comforting knowledge that I could always raise the guests again if things went awry.
"Cheers," I said, raising my goblet to no one in particular. "To life, or whatever's left of it."
And with that, the feast went on, a delightful mess of the living, the dead, and everything in between.
AN: Chapter 44 is out on (Pat)reon!